


Not a Glass Slipper (Part Two: in media res)

by rosetintednerdglasses



Series: Not A Glass Slipper [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F Bombs, F/M, Future Fic, Lots of Twitter, Male-Female Friendship, Mildly Explicit Language, Romance, larry friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4225914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosetintednerdglasses/pseuds/rosetintednerdglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, into the middle of things.</p>
<p>She's a writer on a TV show, one of her best friends is a famous actor. Developing romantic feelings for a globally renowned pop star isn't that bad. (Who is she kidding? It sucks.)</p>
<p>Future fic. A story told in three parts. Harry/OC. [Come on, give it a go!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Table Reads and Self Control

“Matthew stops at the door and looks at Eva packing her suitcase,” Eric Walker reads out carefully, the room filled with the sounds of rustling paper.

“Are you sure about this?” Daniel reads out from his script, his voice controlled. Next to him, Melvyn takes a deep breath and reads her line. “I thought we were done talking about this. I’m not… I _can’t_. I can’t stay in this apartment anymore.”

“Eva-”

“Don’t even try.”

“You’re can’t uproot your life, Eva. You’re quitting your job, you’re movi-”

“So what, Matt? I’m done with all of this. I can’t control it all… I can’t control any of this anymore. I’m done.” Melvyn’s voice breaks, and the whole room stills. _“Done,”_ she repeats weakly.

“Eva throws down the clothes in her arms and turns to face Matthew,” Eric says calmly, seemingly oblivious to the growing tension in the large room.

She fingers the script, reading the words all the writers had been slaving over. She knew hearing the words out loud would hurt – she wasn’t stupid, she knew the writing for this episode was some of the best this season had seen – but Melvyn was taking it to a level she hadn’t expected.

From the stricken faces of all the writers seated around the table, she’s sure none of them expected it either.

It’s the table read of the second last episode for the second season of The Day Planner, and it’s _painful._

“You’re giving up, Eva,” Dan says grimly, head bent over his own script.

Melvyn doesn’t say anything for a while, and everybody looks up to stare at her. Finally, she speaks softly.

“I know.”

Silence reigns for a while, and she looks around in worry. Eric catches her eyes and nods reassuringly, but –

“Well, fuck,” Ann, one of the supporting actors says, leaning away from the table with a sharp exhale. “If you guys wanted to rip out my heart, I would have preferred it if you’d used a blunt saw.”

Immediately, the atmosphere lightens, and nervous giggles break out.

Eric grins. “Blame the ending on Cinderella,” he says, pointing at her. “This was her episode.” Indignant cries about how evil and soul-destroying the ending is breaks out, and she sends her boss a glare. _Thanks for setting the wolves on me._

He sends her a shit-eating grin wider than a shark’s.

_You’re welcome._

Internally, though, she feels relieved. Eric, as showrunner and head writer of TDP, had planned a much happier season end, but a few weeks ago, she had approached him with an alternate plan.

 _“We have a third season order, Eric. How much longer can the show dance on the safe side?”_ She had implored.

 _“Write it out, and we’ll see,”_ he’d said. _“There’s time to switch the second half of the season to your end, but only if the rest of the team agrees. So write out an outline.”_

She’d done exactly that for three sleepless nights before producing it to the show’s team of writers, who loudly (they did everything loudly) decided it was a better idea than his.

_“It’s a hell of a heartbreaker, but it’s time we took a risk with this,” she’d announced._

She grins.

Eric hadn’t liked the reception to her idea, she knew (he hated not being right about something, and he hated not being the best), but he’d supported her move from the day the writers had begun working on the new plan. They’d tailored the entirety of the second half of the season to hint towards her ending, and she’d been allowed full reign on this episode.

“Mel was the one who went crazy,” Dan adds mildly, throwing her a wink. “You’re not supposed to be perfect at a table read.”

Like children, the room turns to blame their lead actress for doing her job well, and he sends her a surreptitious thumbs up.

*

“Hey, you wanted to speak to me?” She sticks her head timidly into Eric’s tiny office, and he turns away from the single window in his office to smile. “Yeah, come on in.”

For a second, she takes a beat to admire the tableau before her. Her boss is lanky and tall, and every bit of him, his personality, and his office scream _hipster_ at her. She thanks god she isn’t madly in love with him anymore (season one of TDP had been a nightmare), and walks into the room.

“What’s up?” she asks amicably, settling into one of the two (purposely) mismatched chairs.

“You did good,” he says with a sigh, leaning on his desk in front of her. She tilts her head up to stare at him, and raises her eyebrows. “Why do you sound unhappy about that?”

“I hate being wrong,” he says with a smirk. “Don’t expect me to be big about this.”

She snorts. “Thanks, boss.”

He surveys her for a bit before turning to sit behind his desk. “Have you heard the rumours?”

She shifts guiltily, and he grins.

“Don’t worry, I know what the gossip vine is like. Not blaming you if you’ve heard some stuff…” he finishes delicately.

“Maybe I heard… something.” She says cagily.

It’s his turn to snort. “Okay, if we’re playing things that way…” he leans his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers together. “If this rumour-we-shall-not-mention is, in fact, true… well, you realize that certain roles will be shuffled, right? New positions will be opened up…”

Inwardly, she wonders why he’s trying to sound like the Dark Lord, but squashes the thought before a smirk spreads across her face.

“You’re horrible at this,” she says bluntly.

He grins his evil shark-grin again. “Okay. But just remember that if that time comes to pass, you’ll have a chance. So make sure you work just as hard with Lauren for the next season, because this third season will be a trail run for more. If the Powers That Be like how we deal…”

“But they don’t usually care about the writing staff, right?” She asks, unsure of what his vague instructions mean.

“They don’t,” he allows. “They don’t unless they  have to make executive decisions based on the staff. Lauren has the most experience amongst all of you, but that’s just one role. The rest of you… there’s a lot that can happen. All I’m saying is, be prepared.”

“Ah,” she says, feeling her frown clear.

They look at each other for a bit, then she begins to get up, eager to leave the room and consider the wealth of information Eric’s just handed her.

 _Complete 180,_ she thinks wryly. Six months ago, she’d have been thrilled to be sitting in the office, having a one-on-one with her lanky superior.

“Leaving?” He asks silkily, and she feels a shot of alarm. “Um, yep,” she says. “You need anything else?”

 _It’s like he’s reading my mind,_ she thinks wretchedly.

“I was thinking we could have lunch and discuss ideas,” he says, standing up and shoving his hands the pockets of his tweed pants. “Season three is going to be hard to begin, especially after the finale’s big reveal.”

The tweed reminds her exactly why spending time alone with Walker is a bad idea. “Sorry, I have lunch plans,” she lies easily. He raises his eyebrows. “Alright. Who-”

Her phone begins to ring, and she seizes it with relief.

_Incoming Call_

_Harry_

She feels a rush of pleasure replace the rising panic and distaste in her stomach, and answers the call. “Hey!”

Her voice sounds thankfully normal, and she convincingly carries out a series of complex movements to convey to Eric that she needs to leave.

He nods, eyebrows cinched a little, and she makes sure to close the door after her.

*

“You lifesaver, you.” She breathes, feeling a giggle rise in her throat.

 _“How come?”_ Harry answers, amusement ringing clearly in his voice. (He seems amused by almost everything she says, and she doesn’t understand it.)

“Needed to get out of the boss’s clutches,” she answers lightly.

 _“Ah,”_ he says sympathetically. _“I can do better than a phone call, though.”_

She smiles. “What do you mean?”

_“I’m in the neighbourhood. Do you think you could leave work long enough for lunch? My treat.”_

“Lunch would be awesome,” she says, looking up at the ceiling to thank the gods of food. “I just lied about having lunch plans anyway.”

He laughs lightly into the phone, sending a shiver of happiness directly into her. (His voice is sinfully sexy, it’s really unfair.) _“I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”_

“Perfect,” she nods to herself. “Oh, and Harry? Not a treat. We’re splitting the bill, my friend.”

She can _hear_ the man’s eye roll.

_“Of course, love.”_

She spends the next ten minutes stubbornly _not_ brushing her hair out of the messy top-knot she’d fashioned it into hours ago, and ignoring the itch in her hands to irrationally throw on eyeliner and the emergency heels she keeps in the tiny writer’s room.

She especially doesn’t let herself think too much about Harry using the word ‘love’.

 _It’s not a big deal, don’t think too much about it,_ she repeats in her head until he appears and grins like a delighted fairy prince, wiping away Eric Walker’s shark smile from her mind.

After all, she can’t keep developing silly crushes on all the men in her life.

 _Especially not charming, unattainable pop stars,_ she thinks ruefully, seating herself carefully behind him on his shiny motorbike.

She’s had enough of the charming kind.  
  
All the logic doesn't stop her from wanting to run her hands over his back, or play with his hair or... _stop it._


	2. Shop Talk and a Few Drinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cindereeeeelllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” pierces through her hazy daydream, and sits up with a start. “Huh?” she asks wildly, the image of green fuzzy eyes disappearing from her mind.
> 
> Future fic. A story told in three parts. Harry/OC.

She rubs her eyes and stares blearily at the paper in front of her, the originally neat words obscured by highlighter, pen marks and scribbles. “I think we’re overthinking this,” she mumbles, dropping her head down on her knees.

“When do we not?” Comes from a muffled source from her right side, and she looks up momentarily to see Mark, a new recruit to the team, in a similar position.

“Come on, guys, it’s not so bad, we just have a few dialogues left to deal with!” Lauren says sunnily, still poring over her script. The writers, from their various positions in the wide room, turn to stare at her.

“Are you even human?” Nina, one of the oldest writers, asks weakly.

“Cyborg,” Lauren replies dryly. “How did you guess?”

“Who’s a cyborg?” Everybody looks up to see Eric striding into the room. She eyes the little bow tie at his neck and stifles a snort. _Who does he think he’s kidding?_

“Lauren. She displays inhuman powers of tirelessness,” Chax volunteers, his body slowly sinking into the best (and only) soft couch in the room.

Eric snorts and takes his seat at the head of the long table, empty but for lunch leftovers. It’s the unofficial Important Meeting Table, dubbed so by the writers back in season 1, and nobody but Eric likes to sit at it.

“Maybe if everybody decides to sit up straight…” He begins, invitingly, and the implied ellipses in his speech irritate her.

“Okay, _mom,_ ” she mutters.

The writers let out various degrees of chuckles, and Eric sighs. “Guys, it’s almost nine. At what point do you idiots want to finish this off so everybody can go home?”

Reluctantly, everybody gets up, and moves slowly towards the IMT. Chax takes a few moments to struggle out of his sinkhole, before slumping towards the IMT like everybody else.

She finds her coffee mug and is pleasantly surprised to see some coffee in it. The pleasant feeling dies the moment she realizes it’s lukewarm and tasteless. Staring into the disappointing interior of her mug, she compares it (and the whole night) to the one she had the night before.

So much better, she thinks, thinking of the loud, happy bar and large tumblers of rum.

“Cindereeeeelllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” pierces through her hazy daydream (nightdream? Dream?), and sits up with a start. “Huh?” she asks wildly, the image of green fuzzy eyes disappearing from her mind.

“Welcome back,” Eric says sarcastically.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Nina asks slyly, eyes glinting with evil glee.

She shakes her head. “Three months ago, you guys wouldn’t have cared what I’d spaced out about.”

“So you’re admitting you were thinking about a certain _something_ ,” Nina says, clearly not ready to let the subject go.

“Guys, I think we’re being unfair,” Lauren says, looking up from the script. “She’s just tired-”

“Yes, thank you-”

“- after all, bar hopping is a seriously tiring experience.”

Not for the first time does she curse the existence of paparazzi. “I did not go bar-hopping last night,” she says, sending Lauren a glare.

Her co-workers look at her silently, and she grumbles.

“I went to _a_ bar. Single.”

“You know what,” Eric says loudly, “I think we need to take a break and look at this script with a fresh pair of eyes.”

He pauses, and she feels suspicion rise inside her. “And we should fill our break with details of this _obviously_ fun bar experience.”

She groans and the room continues to tease her, even as her mind involuntarily thinks of her unexpectedly fun night, and away from Lauren’s script and the writer’s room.

_“I hate meeting people, and snazzy bars are too expensive, and-”_

_“I’ll pay if you want, and you’re not meeting strangers, they’re my friends,” Harry said patiently._

_“You’re not paying for me,” she said immediately, and he sighed. “Fine, spend a month’s rent on three drinks, but come anyway.”_

_She narrowed her eyes at him, and he waited patiently._

_“I’m going to hate it,” she said, finally relenting._

_His answering beam was blinding, and he led her into the bar, one hand on her back._

_She greeted his friends nervously, trying to shake off the happiness of seeing one of his sunny grins._

Idly, she notes that her colleagues have switched subjects, and she smiles, letting her mind wander again.

_“Okay, okay, stop for a second. Either we all continue to pretend like we know how to play darts, or…” The group stood and waited for Louis to finish his sentence. “We just get another round.”_

_Unanimously, everyone voted for more alcohol, and she volunteered to tell the bartender. After making her way through the crowd, she realized Louis had struggled through it as well, and they waited at the front to grab all the drinks._

_“Having fun, aren’t you?” Louis asked, and she rolled her eyes. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” she allowed._

_After a beat of silence, she looked at him. “How’s work been? I thought you didn’t like hanging around in LA for too long.” He nodded and took a swig of his fresh whiskey._

_“We’re trying to sign on three new artists, but it’s been a bit difficult,” he said. “Parents are the worst kind of managers sometimes.”_

_She sniggered, and they began making their way back to the table, accompanied by a young bartender, laden with drinks. After being hailed by their group of exuberant, tipsy people, they continued their conversation._

_“How about you?”_

_Disarmed by the interest, she talked about her job, and noted how he seemed genuinely interested in what she was saying._

_“- so then because I was the writer for that ep, I had to sit and collab with the director, while the rest of the writer’s room worked on the next episode – which is an episode under another writer – sorry, I’m probably not explaining this very well. Anyway, this one day, we were shooting for a montage and Ann, the supp-"_

_“I didn’t force you out of your apartment on a Tuesday night to talk shop,” Harry said appearing beside her, looking like a tall, impish elf. “Both of you, banned.” He looked sternly at the two of them, a grin tugging at the corners of his wide mouth._

_She looked up at his face, and felt a reluctant smile unfurl._

_“Sorry.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Louis’ gaze sharpen at her reaction, and turned hurriedly to look somewhere else, feeling like a child caught doing something wrong._

Looking down at her page, she frowns. _Eric’s right. The episode’s scripting needs to end. Lauren wrote this ages ago, we’re taking too long to finish this._ It is, after all, the final episode of the season.

 _Yay, season finale,_ she thinks wryly, bending over the words again. She’s pretty sure she should be more excited about the finale than she actually is, but all she can think of is her bed, along with flashes of successful tipsy conversation.

_“I told you it would be fun,” Harry said brightly, eyes are little fuzzy from the alcohol._

_“Yeah, but I’m going to be sleepy and distracted tomorrow,” she reminded him, loath to admit that she had been wrong, holding her hands out aloft as she tried to avoid the cracks on the pavement by hopping over them._

_“Also very poor,” he reminded her, and she laughed loudly._

*

By ten, the scripting is done with, and she’s on her way home in a cab, eyes itchy with sleep. She slips her phone out of her pocket and decides to text Harry.

_I hate you._

After a few minutes, her phone buzzes.

_Harry: Sleepy?_

_And poor._

_Harry: Ha. how was scripting?_

_How did you know that’s what I was doing?_

_Harry: It’s your job. Also twitter._

_Forgot I tweeted that._

By the time she’s getting into bed, her phone dings again.

_Harry: Sorry._

She thinks of sitting in a nice booth with Harry’s arm thrown behind her shoulders, hearing bad jokes whispered into her ears and warm breath on her neck, sending shivers down her spine.

_It’s alright, I guess. I won’t admit this later, but I had fun. :)_

She’s in so much trouble.


	3. Salaries and Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, into the middle of things.
> 
> “If you didn’t get it,” he begins conversationally, corners of his mouth threatening to stretch it, “I could just buy you a new jo-”
> 
> She smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”
> 
> Future fic. A story told in three parts. Harry/OC.

She’s pacing.

“Explain it to me again,” Harry says patiently, fiddling with a brass figurine that usually stands on her tiny coffee table. (She dimly wonders who gave it to her, then pushes the thought away impatien – oh, it was her aunt’s welcome-to-LA-this-is-for-good-luck present.)

She rubs her forehead, then takes a deep breath and sits down next to him. “I’m a writer for the show, and also an editor. Usually, there’s an executive above a typical story editor and writer. _Then_ there are producers, senior producers, and then the showrunner. So in this case, my showrunner is-”

“Walker,” he says calmly, and she nods, feeling her insides begin to settle. She knows he’s making her reiterate stuff on purpose, she knows what he’s trying to do, and in some alternate universe, she’s probably kicking his ass for it… but it’s calming her in _this_ universe, so she doesn’t care.

“Lauren – you’ve met her, the bright, friendly one – is a producer, because she has the most experience out of all of us. Under her, there’s Nina, and then the rest of the writers. Most of us are credited as editors-”

Her phone rings, and they both stare at it.

For a moment, she looks at the device blankly, and only moves when Harry nudges her side.

“Hello?” She says breathlessly, sending a wide-eyed look towards the tall form on her sofa.

_Thank god for Harry’s presence._

She’s up for promotion. Executive Story Editor. A feat that no young writer should be able to achieve, but she’s _so close…_ It helps that the writer’s team for The Day Planner is small. Still, she knows that there isn’t a real guarantee of getting the promotion… after all, much better writers than her have had to slog for _years_ , well into their forties ( _like Lauren,_ she thinks guiltily), before these opportunities come along.

 _It’s entirely possible for your age to count against you,_ she reminds herself, even as she listens carefully to the voice on the other end of the line.

Suddenly, Harry’s gaze is too unnerving, and she can’t bear to feel it on her back. She gets up and strides to her tiny bedroom, placing herself on the side of the mattress gingerly.

Finally, she hangs up and sighs deeply.

“Well?” She jumps slightly at the sound behind her, and she cranes her neck to see Harry leaning curiously against the doorway to her bedroom.

He frowns at her silence, but doesn’t say anything until she stands up and opens her mouth uncertainly. “If you didn’t get it,” he begins conversationally, corners of his mouth threatening to stretch it, “I could just buy you a new jo-”

She smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

He beams, then waits lets the wattage of the smile drop and raises his eyebrows at her.

“Well?”

She slowly grins. “I got it!” She says, only just beginning to feel excitement grow in her chest, and is immediately engulfed in a tight hug.

“I _knew_ it! Congratulations!”

The hug lasts a little longer than usual, then she swipes her phone out to text her family. _Executive story editor,_ she thinks, _is something the entire clan will appreciate._

“We’ll go out and celebrate,” Harry says triumphantly, removing a bottle of wine from her refrigerator. She frowns. “When did that even get in my fridge?”

He shakes his head at her, disappearing into her kitchen and reappearing with two glasses. “You barely recognized me when I turned up, I should have guessed that you didn’t notice the bottle.”

She watches him pour generous amounts of red wine (she doesn’t much favour wine, but she supposes it’s better to celebrate with than huge tumblers of whiskey) into the glasses, hands moving briskly.

He glides over to her and she stops him before he can open his mouth (he was probably going to make some ridiculous toast anyway). “Thanks,” she says gently, and his face softens. They both know she’s referring to his presence and not the wine.

He shrugs a little, attempting to look nonchalant, but she knows he’s pleased.

They clink glasses.

*

_@WritingSloth: In hindsight, it’s probably not a great idea to celebrate a promotion with copious amounts of alcohol. #ExecutiveStoryEditor_

_@TheRealDan: Oh, @WritingSloth. Now the show’s going to suffer. How dare you act like a woman in her twenties?_

_@WritingSloth: I can practically hear your voice through my phone, you ass. Shut up. @TheRealDan_

*

She gives herself a week to celebrate.

The first night had been at a club with her friends (she notices that her friend group has swollen to incorporate more artists and celebrities, but she’s not sure if this is because of Melvyn, Daniel, or Harry), which had been followed by a massively painful day and an intimate encounter with her toilet. It left her disillusioned (and headache…y), so she had put her foot down and insisted upon more mature, responsible fun.

_(@MelvynActs: Some people are such spoilsports.)_

She bought herself books (plus fancy editions of some old Agatha Christie novels), and allowed herself to be pulled out of her apartment every night for some version of dive bar drinking, coffee house hopping, night-time ice cream adventures, and even, on one memorable occasion, motorcycle riding at six am.

She’s still not forgiven Harry for insisting on it with both of them in pyjamas (he dressed up specially in a pair of banana-yellow monstrosities, just to make her feel better about an old Scooby Doo t-shirt and purple polka shorts ensemble), because somebody from the paparazzi had published a bunch of photographs of her in the ridiculous get-up the next morning, prompting her mother to call her and berate her for wearing silly things in public.

(Which was followed by an excruciating amount of time spent on: “Are you dating that boy?” and “But why not? Is it because of his hair?”)

 _No, mother, it’s not his hair,_ she’d sighed, reluctant to disclose how perfect she thought said hair actually was.

On her final Day of Celebration (no, seriously, she does have to work, and prepare for work, and this one week of holidaying is more stressful than working twelve hours a week), she persuades Tim to let her eat like a VIP at his new, five-star gourmet restaurant.

_@WritingSloth: I never thought I’d say this, but I may be falling in love with Caesar Salad. CAESAR. It’s like… forget what you know about salad, guys._

_@WritingSloth: There’s fancy whiskey there’s fancy whiskey there’s FANCY WHISKEY_

_@WritingSloth: THE DESSERT HERE IS SERVED IN LITTLE CHOCOLATE CUPS WITH WAVE PATTERNS, I’M DYING. #TimRocks_

The guest list was tiny, and she only realizes Tim’s invited Harry when he calls her at an ungodly hour in the morning about picking her up.

_I’m not awake yet ask me later it’s a Sunday you know the rules I’m sleeping you suck_

_Harry: It’s 10 in the morning._

_Autocorrect makes you understand me._

_Harry: It’s four in the afternoon now, tell me you’re awake._

_God, you’re so mean. I’m not a sloth._

_Harry: That is your EXACT nickname._

_Whatever. Anyway, what were you saying in the morning?_

She feels a little uncomfortable about Tim’s invitation to Harry. She _really_ doesn’t want Harry to assume that she’s been telling her friends that they’re together or something, so she decides to warn Tim off later.

It doesn’t go very well.

“So this is the kitchen,” she says, looking at the new, gleaming walls of possibly the fanciest kitchen she’s ever seen. She reaches out to touch the knobs of a huge microwave (she thinks it’s a microwave, anyway), and gets her hand pulled away by Tim. “Don’t touch,” he whines, tucking her hand under his arm and leading her around his domain.

“Tim,” she begins hesitantly as she imagines Harry sitting at the table outside, in the main room of the restaurant, along with her closest friends.

“Why is this chicken so _dry_ , don’t you dare serve this monstrous - hmm?”

She suppresses a smile at Dan’s fiancé and presses on. It takes her a few stumbling attempts, but she finally manages to communicate her thoughts to her friend (minus the inconvenient feelings bit), and she stops to look at him nervously. The sous chef behind Tim is looking at her like _you don’t question the boss, lady,_ which does nothing to settle her mind.

“You realize he likes you, right?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, he-”

“All he does is flirt with you! And if anything Danny says is to go by, then you’re always out for lunch with Styles, and-”

“He doesn’t _flirt_ , and we’re _friends_ , Tim,” she begins again, but he shakes his head slowly.

“You might want to ask him about that first,” he says.

The thought stays in her head even through the devouring of delicate desserts, and gets louder when the party breaks up and Harry’s dropping her back to her apartment.

“When’s your car done with repairs?” Harry asks as they pull up near her apartment building. She turns to see the streetlamps bathing his face with golden light, all of it made a little fuzzy with the alcohol in her veins.

“Tired of driving me around, there, Styles?” She teases, trying to ignore the way the light made shadows appear at his jawline.

“Naah,” he says grinning. “Just trying to savour the days you chill in my car.”

She feels her eyes widen a smidge, and tamps down on the urge to duck her head. “Please, you’re just tired of being the sober one,” she says saucily.

He rolls his eyes at her, and she, in her now-slightly-tipsy mode, tries to copy him.

They chuckle, and she leans back in her comfy seat in silence once more, before Harry speaks.

“Did you and Tim argue or something? Because it sounded like you did in the end.”

She avoids his perceptive gaze for a bit, then nods brightly. “He made an annoying assumption about something, and I gave him pretty good for it,” she says, trying to avoid telling Harry any pertinent bits of information about what the assumption had been.

Until she decides to tell him anyway.

“Tim was trying to tell me that you’ve been flirting with me, and you have feelings for me,” she says as they walk up to her building’s doorway, and she opens it with her key, words rushing out in what she assumes is a decisive, nonchalant and coolly casual manner.

“Crazy,” she finishes dryly, hoping it’s too dark and shadowy for Harry to see her expressions.

He looks caught off-guard for a second, then braces one hand on the entryway, and leans forward in consternation.

“What?” He asks, looking baffled.

She feels a bit of her insides sink, and she realizes that she’d been hoping, even in her tiniest dreams, that he actually had been… oh well.

“Yeah, it’s so sill-”

She is cut off by two large, strong hands gripping her upper arms.

“But I _have_ been flirting with you,” Harry says, looking earnestly into her eyes. “And I thought you were flirting back.”


	4. Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you kidding me?” She says, bewildered, reaching for the card nestled against perfect gladioli, even though she’s prepared to bet her entire apartment on who sent the flowers. 
> 
> 'I told the delivery man not to ring the doorbell because you probably wouldn’t appreciate opening the door in your polka dots.  
> Harry'
> 
> Future fic. A story told in three parts. Harry/OC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. 
> 
> I got carried away. :D 
> 
> Enjoy!

Mornings are really hard for her.

She loves waking up and being lazy; checking her email, Twitter and Instagram, then making a cup of tea or coffee and reading the newspaper. She likes taking a warm shower and washing her hair, then listening to music and pretending like she’s in a music video.

The unfortunate thing is, this usually makes her incredibly late, so she inevitably spends five minutes running around her apartment, bouncing off corners and cursing the furniture while she grabs stuff and shoves it into her bag before running out of the door for work.

It’s not a great system, and she has a lot of bruises she can never account for (her landlord used to think she had an abusive boyfriend stacked away in some corner of her flat), but she doesn’t like the idea of change, so she sucks it up and buys furniture with rounded edges.

Soon after work begins on early scripting for The Day Planner’s new season (the morning after the most awkward moment of her life), and she’s getting used to her new responsibilities (and salary, which basically means she can buy herself new fancy jeans from that one boutique without feeling ashamed of herself and her priorities), she runs out of her apartment, one hand holding onto a bag, a hairbrush (has she brushed her hair yet? Does she even need to? Maybe she can just convince Eric she’s trying to embrace a new sense of pseudo-hipster style) and her phone, while the other holds a hastily slapped together peanut butter sandwich. She’s in the process of closing the door behind her and checking the time on her mobile when her foot hits something soft and, surprised, she drops everything she’s carrying.

 _Five second rule,_ she thinks fervently, shoving her sandwich into her mouth, vowing not to tell anybody that she just picked it up off her welcome mat. She stops stock still when she realizes the thing that stopped her is a bouquet.

Of flowers.

“Are you kidding me?” She says, bewildered, reaching for the card nestled against perfect gladioli, even though she’s prepared to bet her entire apartment on who sent the flowers.

_I told the delivery man not to ring the doorbell because you probably wouldn’t appreciate opening the door in your polka dots._

_Harry_

*

“Nice flowers, by the way, what’s the occasion?” Lauren asks, pointing her pen at the not-rare sight of a vase of flowers in the corner of the room. (Though, to be honest, it’s usually Nina who brings them, not her. Her contribution to the writer’s room is tissues, coffee and sugar packets.)

She sends a dark look at the fancy bouquet in the corner. One white gladiolus seems to be insolently mocking her.

“Got them from a friend,” she mumbles, looking away from the offending bloom. “I didn’t want to waste them in my apartment.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nina open her mouth, a teasing glint in her eye, but Lauren throws a not-very-surreptitious paper ball at her forehead.

She feels incredibly grateful for Lauren’s mothering, and looks back down at her work.

*

_She stared at him for a long moment, the light above her doorstep shining into his face to give it a completely unnecessary angelic glow._

_“I…”she began slowly, brain scrambling to push away the fuzz leftover from Tim’s whiskey, wetting her lips with her tongue in an effort to give herself more time. His hands rubbed her arms softly, and she noticed his eyes flicker down to her lips, which made her brain turn blank._

_I should not be drunk for this, she thought suddenly._

_“I’m drunk,” she blurted out._

_He frowned a little and nodded, but didn’t step away. A mad part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms._

_So she did._

_Flinging her arms around him, she pulled him into a hug, her face turned into his neck._

_“Sorry,” she muttered softly, as his arms slid reassuringly around her waist. “I just need to be in control of what I’m saying,” she said, letting herself savour the feeling of the hug, which felt very different from the ones they’d shared before in broad daylight._

_She backed away, but not before he pressed a quick kiss into her neck._

_It almost turned her brain off again, but she resolutely forced herself to focus._

_“We’ll talk,” she promised, giving herself only a moment to enjoy the lingering feeling of his lips at the base of her neck._

_Saying so, she turned and fled into the building, heart thumping._

*

Around lunch time, she beats a familiar path down to a shawarma stand she likes, ignoring the heavy feeling of misery tugging at her heart. She’s spent so many of her past lunch hours with Harry, it’s unsettling to do it alone.

But every time she thinks of him, she thinks of her feelings, and _his_ feelings, and how she’s an obtuse _idiot_ , and then _the flowers_ (literally nobody else has ever remembered that she likes gladioli better than any other kind of flower, it’s ridiculous. People barely remember what gladioli are _called_ ).

Fondly, she thinks of a time in college when she used to chase away her problems with cigarettes and wishes she could still indulge without worrying about lung cancer.

She almost misses the long car parked near her usual shawarma stand, and the lanky male standing against it, clad in a faded brown jacket.

“Oh.” She says, feeling her eyes widen. “Hi.”

He grins widely. “Hello.”

She waits for him to say more, but he only indicates to the passenger seat of his car, with a casual “lunch?”

 _Okay. Maybe he’s just not going to talk about it right now,_ she thinks, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Self-consciously tugging at her shirt (seriously, it was the wrong day to wear a tank top and the oldest shirt from her father’s old wardrobe), she walks forward to the door he’s holding open with an equally nonchalant “sure”.

Just as she’s getting in, he leans forward, green eyes sparkling with amusement and – _something_.

The _something_ sends a zing up her spine.

“Just so you know, I have romantic intentions, and I _will_ be flirting with you the entire time,” Harry says, voice silky and dangerous. (Though, maybe the danger is only in her head.)

With that, he lets her in, and walks quickly to his side of the vehicle. “What?” She asks, slightly bewildered, slightly put-off.

_What is he doing?_

“I’m giving you a warning, since you apparently need a notification,” he says flippantly, buckling himself in.

She looks at him silently for a second, torn between melting and being flabbergasted, before making a snap judgement.

“Fine,” she says, grabbing her own seatbelt.

She doesn’t miss the relief in his eyes.

*

I’m in love and I think I screwed it up. Well maybe it’s not love. I don’t know, it might be. Fucking help me.

_She stared silently at the mess she was trying to text, and then deleted the message, imagining Katherine’s reaction at being awoken at 2 am with a drunk text._

_She rolled over and groaned into her pillow, trying to forget the moment at the steps._

*

She realizes what he’s doing pretty quickly.

After their moment on her front steps, she’d gone upstairs to obsess, and he’d – probably – done the same in his own home.

Only he’d been a thousand times more perceptive than she had (probably because his blood was unsullied by all the whiskey she’d delightedly imbibed, having no clue she would require her wit mere hours later). Somehow, Harry knew her well enough to realize that she needed reassurance that he _did_ , in fact, have feelings for her.

And he promptly decided to provide it, by way of chasing her like a romantic lothario from an old novel.

 _Maybe lothario is unfair,_ she thinks, smiling and toying with her phone.

It’s been a week since he began his… mission, for lack of better words. He’s been spending every single lunch hour with her, he’s been surprising her with flowers and funny texts, or philosophical poetry and messages made entirely out of lyrics from old music. She gets a ‘good morning, beautiful’ every day, and honestly, all she wants... okay, she knows what she wants, and she has no idea what she's doing, sitting in limbo and getting chased when all she really wants is to be caught. 

She knows what he’s waiting for; he’s made his feelings clear, and he’s waiting for _her_ to act. He's letting her make the final decision. Or whatever. She thinks that's what he's doing.

She drops her phone in her lap,  and picks up the card he’d left with her after her lunch, with Misery Monday chocolates (‘because Mondays are supposed to be blue’, he’d said, when she’d opened the box to see the weirdest-looking blue chocolates).

_So darling if you love me, would you let me know?_

She recognizes the lyric from an old song by fun. and traces her fingers around the dumb little stick figure he’d drawn underneath it. (It’s a little long-haired fellow on his knees, hands clasped together to make one round blob. She thinks that he needs to join some sort of art class.)

 _What’s stopping you?_ An inner voice asks quietly, and she tries to argue with it.

But she comes up with nothing.

Carefully keeping everything aside, she pulls her car out of park (she’s literally just been sitting in her car for ages, she got out of work almost forty minutes ago) and begins to drive.

*

He looks only a little surprised to see her (social interaction on Monday nights is usually limited), hair pulled up in a messy bun. “Hey, how was work?” He asks, letting her into his house, like she comes to his place every day.

“Can we talk?” She says, tilting her head to the side, looking up at his face as he shakes his hair out of the bun.

“Of course,” he says easily, leading her (one hand on the base of her spine – she can feel the warmth spread through her shirt and into her skin) to one of the long sofas in his living room.

They sit, and he looks expectantly at her.

She blinks.

“I swear I had something to say,” she says, opening and closing her mouth uncertainly.

He sniggers, and it makes her narrow her eyes. She slaps his arm lightly. “Shut up, I’m trying to say something romantic,” she whines, and watches happily as he sobers up (with dimples intact, though).

“Go on,” he says, his grin widening again, and she pokes him agreeably. “You’re ruining the moment.”

He turns fully towards her, and she looks at him, then down at her hands in her lap. One of his arms moves to the back of the sofa, stretched between the two of them on the backrest, as his right hand shifts into her lap and slowly picks her left hand up.

He traces the veins at the back of her hand for a bit, and she smiles.

“We have feelings for each other,” she says, her matter-of-fact tone incongruous with the atmosphere settling around them.

“We do,” he says, and she detects a note of amusement in his voice.

“So now what?” She asks, looking away from his fingers, trying to ignore the feeling of his skin brushing against hers.

 _When did he get so close?_ She wonders.

“I have an idea,” he says, voice a little husky.

And just like that, he leans forward, letting his fingers slip upwards to thread into her hair, and kisses her.

His lips are soft. She’s been heartily proud of her level-headedness through the entire conversation, but her resolve to continue being so shatters the moment their lips meet. Feeling her heart thump, she shifts closer to Harry, letting one hand slide into his curls while the other leans delicately on his knee.

She pulls him closer, enjoying the gentle pressure of the mouth she’s been fantasizing about for months.

They finally break apart after breathing gets difficult, and she feels a smile tug at her lips.

“Good idea,” she says breathlessly, and he huffs out a short laugh before leaning down to capture her lips again.


	5. Deal-Breaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, he slides out of bed and walks away to make tea himself. She admires the view happily for a second, before yelling after him to wear some clothes.
> 
> “It’s my house, love!” He yells from somewhere, and she settles deeper into the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. I didn't expect to take so long to update! I'm really sorry. ^_^ Here's an extra long-ish chapter to make up for it.

_

 

They’re giggling a little as he presses her into a wall, waiting for a group of curious young women to exit the pub. “I knew coming here for after-dinner drinks was a bad idea,” Harry mumbles into her neck, heating it with his breath.

She lets out another giddy laugh, trying to keep an eye out for the fans that had unfortunately decided to enjoy drinks at the same bar for the night. Harry’s hands are warm on her hips, though, so she keeps losing track of the world beyond his shoulders.

“Harry,” she hisses, trying to keep a straight face, “stop it and let me see.”

He doesn’t look up from her at _all,_ but mumbles ‘sorry’ into her skin again. Before she knows what’s happening, he’s twisting and –

Now she’s got her back to the bar and he’s leaning against the wall, looking delightedly down at her. His strong arms are caging her in, and one long leg is sliding against hers, like they weren’t close enough to begin with.

“Better view now?” He asks impishly, and she giggles again helplessly.

They grin at each other (she’s very sure that her smile is at least 73.2% more dopey than his) for a while longer, and her giggles die in her throat as an abstract sort of warmth falls around them.

She leans up and (doesn’t aim for his lips at all, no, _she will control herself_ ) whispers in his ear. “Are we just going to stand here, then?” She tries to drop back down to her feet (she’s braced against him, one hand on his stomach – which isn’t fun at all, _nope_ – and one on his shoulder, stretched out on her tip toes), but he wraps his hands tighter around her and turns them again to imprison her between his body and the wall.

“I like it here,” he says softly, nuzzling the side of her jaw with his nose.

Her heart could burst.

Suddenly, his nose touches a spot under her left earlobe, and she jumps a little, then laughs breathlessly, trying to unsuccessfully get away from Harry. “That tickles,” she protests softly, and he blows wind impatiently into her neck, making her laugh harder.

“I’m trying to be romantic,” he mumbles, leaving tiny kisses along her collar bone.

“You are, you poor thing,” she says, trying to keep a straight face. He lifts his head to look at her, and she manages to hold her expression for a few seconds, before snorting and laughing helplessly again. Leaning forward, she drops her head against his broad chest.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I just…”

She feels a laugh vibrate through his torso, under both her hands, now braced against his front.

“Fine, then,” he grumbles. His arms tighten, and suddenly, he’s placing open mouthed kisses down the column of her neck, hands skimming around the waist of her jeans, just under the hem of her shirt. Her laughter dies slowly as the feeling of his skin on hers and his mouth on her neck overwhelms her.

Later, she doesn’t entirely remember when they left the bar (without finally buying a single drink), or how they got into her car (finally back from an extended amount of time in a repair shop), or when they reach his house. She’s too busy keeping track of his hands on the steering wheel, of the music playing softly, of the streetlights playing on his face through the windshield, and of the wind entering the car through their open windows.

When he parks, they look at each other silently.

“This is your place,” she says gently, feeling the same giddy happiness from before build up in her chest, making it hard to stop smiling.

“It is,” he says, solemnly, before an oddly shy smile spreads across his face. He ducks his head a little and busies himself with the music controls, silky hair falling in front of his eyes.

 _This man…_ she thinks in wonder, before making her decision.

Moving forward, she pries Harry’s hands away from the dash, and places a soft kiss on his lips (the first one of the night, a part of her brain supplies helpfully).

“Let’s go inside, then, shall we?”

His house is comfortingly similar, but neither of them survey the area for too long. He kisses her deeply the moment her shoes are off, causing her to stumble a little with one heel. “Careful, it’ll break,” she warns breathlessly, and he snorts helplessly. “Will you stop, please?” he begs tenderly, backing her into the house, pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

“Absolutely not,” she whispers, tugging at the buttons of his soft shirt and trailing her hands down every inch of skin revealed. In response, he pulls her top over her head, and tosses it behind him in the dark.

Their eyes meet in the shadows before her leans down to place kisses down her collar to the outer edge of her bra.

“Harry,” she says urgently, feeling a sudden hot rush in her veins.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, before pulling away and lifting her up easily. She yelps a little, tightening her arms around his neck, but he keeps her steady as he manoeuvres them to his bedroom. “Thank god you’re strong,” she mutters, and he laughs again before depositing her on his large bed, soft sheets and pillows letting her sink in comfortably.

Conversation ends soon after.

 

Morning comes more quickly than expected.

She breathes in deeply, and opens her eyes to look at the man stretched out before her, face relaxed. She carefully pulls her arms from their embrace around him, and stretches before slipping out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

It’s almost amusing to see the number of red marks on her skin, but she mostly just feels a surge of… well. _It’s a good thing today’s a holiday,_ she thinks wryly, splashing water on her face and grabbing a bottle of mouthwash hiding behind the mirror.

She’s gratefully sliding back into bed – her muscles feel pleasantly sore, and every time she stretches one out, she remembers _very_ pleasing memories – when Harry stirs and grabs her tightly, pulling her into him. “’Morning,” he mutters.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, looking at the early rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. “I’ve been awake since you got out of bed,” he retorts grumpily, and she stifles a laugh. Turning, she nestles into his chest, then looks up to see his bright eyes. “Sorry,” she says unapologetically.

“You can make it up to me,” he says, letting one hand slide down her back and stop at her hip suggestively. He leans down and places a soft kiss on her shoulder.

“I’d like a cup of tea.”

It takes her a moment to realize what he’s said, but once she does, she reaches for the pillow under her head and smacks him with it.

The quiet is shattered with his loud laughter (and her threats).

Finally, he slides out of bed and walks away to make tea himself. She admires the view happily for a second, before yelling after him to wear some clothes.

“It’s my house, love!” He yells from somewhere, and she settles deeper into the pillows.

 _I don’t think I’m going to stop smiling,_ she thinks to herself.

Next to her, there’s a beep, followed by five more, and she feels her smile drop a little. _That wasn’t a challenge, Universe,_ she thinks sullenly.

She’s just decided to ignore it when her phone beeps again, but with the specific tone she’s programmed to Katherine’s number. Groaning a little, she grabs her phone and checks it.

_Kat Cell: I want details, you jezebel._

She laughs in spite of herself, and opens the other notifications, predicting shrewdly what they’re about.

“What’re you laughing at now?” She looks up to see Harry walking in with a large tray, bearing two steaming cups of tea and biscuits. She’s very tempted to say ‘you’, but decides not to.

“My friend just texted and called me a jezebel,” she says proudly, taking one cup from hip.

His eyes widen for a second, before realization dawns on his face. Once he’s settled into the sheets beside her again, plate of biscuits balanced carefully on a pillow, one warm cup in his hands, he opens his mouth. “Guess we weren’t that good at hiding, then, last night.”

She shakes her head, and shows him pictures on various websites. Photographs of the two of them exiting a restaurant, and more blurry photos of them standing together in the bar grace the screen. She sips her tea thoughtfully as he flips through the photos with a slight frown before tossing the phone back to her.

“Thoughts?” He asks lightly, but she hears a trace of worry in his tone. Frowning, she turns to look at him. “You look like a Neanderthal in pictures with me,” she says bluntly, making him snigger into his tea. He shakes his head and drains the cup before pulling her towards him gently. They re-position themselves carefully, until she’s comfortably leaning against his chest, sipping at her tea, and the biscuits are balanced on his thigh.

“You know what I meant,” he says insistently, dropping his chin down on her shoulder and slipping his arms around her.

“I know,” she concedes. “But I-”

“If you’re not okay with this sort of thing, I get it,” he says in a rush, and she falls silent. For a moment, her heart twists at the thought that Harry’s half expecting her to consider the invasion of privacy a deal-breaker.

Okay, she gets it. She knows why it is for a lot of people, she used to be _in_ the 1D fandom. She knows how bad paparazzi and fandom invasion can get. And it’s not exactly fun to have photos of her very _literally_ necking someone splashed all over the Internet.

But the idea of slipping out of bed and letting go of this… she takes a sharp breath at the sudden pointed hurt in her throat. “It’s not a deal-breaker, Harry,” she says, and feels the tension in his arms melt a little.

He doesn’t say anything, so she soldiers on. “I get it. I know what’s going to happen now, but… I mean, I knew what I was doing when I came over to your house and kissed you, okay?” She finishes her tea and cradles the empty cup in her lap before tracing her eyes over the tattoos on his arm to his eyes, now trained seriously on her.

“Everyone will-”

“I know,” she interrupts. The frown starts to ease from between his eyebrows, and she feels a small smile tug at her lips again.

“I have a question, though.”

“Anything,” Harry says immediately, reaching for a biscuit and beginning to munch on it.

“Do we confirm? I mean… are we telling people? I’ve only told Dan, Mel and Katherine,” she says hesitantly. He looks thoughtful, but swallows and dusts his fingers off, then places the plate on the wooden table next to his side of the bed. “Do exactly what you want,” he declares, reaching for her empty cup and dropping it next to the biscuits.

“Tell whatever you want,” he continues, wrapping himself around her tightly, before sliding them down the pillows. She grins, feeling a knot somewhere inside her ease up. “Whatever?”

He nods into her neck. “Human. Tree. Dog. Cat. Abstract people on the internet… hashtag sex. Hashtag feelings. Hashtag couple.”

After a few moments, he leans up on one elbow.

“What do you want to tell people?” He asks curiously, hair sticking up in a funny, endearing sort of way.

She feels the giddy feeling from the previous night rise and take over her entire body. Sliding one hand into his hair, she tugs his face close enough to kiss him passionately, and shifts to lie under him on her back.

“Boyfriend,” she reveals between hard kisses, and he stops moving to send her a blinding beam.

“I like that.”

Just before she closes her eyes, he mutters the word _‘girlfriend’_ into her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interlude should be up in a few days. I swear, okay?!


End file.
